


Clocks

by palebluedream



Category: Pentatonix
Genre: M/M, Scavi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palebluedream/pseuds/palebluedream
Summary: Picture it this way:Each person is born with a clock that doesn’t function in chronometric terms. That is, a minute isn’t actually a minute - a minute can be two minutes, or three minutes, or an hour, or a year. Somebody who lives until they’re fifty will have a clock that moves faster than somebody who lives until they’re eighty-four. But then again, somebody who lives until they’re fifty might also have a clock that moves slower than somebody who lives until they’re eight-four. It’s not consistent, really, and it’s all entirely inconsequential. But humans like to pretend they understand the world around them, and they like to pretend that time truly exists, and while they’re completely incorrect on both accounts, we like to humor them every now and again.And it’s because of this that Scott and Avi meet at the wrong place, in the wrong way, and at the very wrong time.But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, now aren’t we?





	

Picture it this way:

Each person is born with a clock that doesn’t function in chronometric terms. That is, a minute isn’t actually a minute - a minute can be two minutes, or three minutes, or an hour, or a year. Somebody who lives until they’re fifty will have a clock that moves faster than somebody who lives until they’re eighty-four. But then again, somebody who lives until they’re fifty might also have a clock that moves  _ slower _ than somebody who lives until they’re eight-four. It’s not consistent, really, and it’s all entirely inconsequential. But humans like to pretend they understand the world around them, and they like to pretend that time truly exists, and while they’re completely incorrect on both accounts, we like to humor them every now and again.

And it’s because of this that Scott and Avi meet at the wrong place, in the wrong way, and at the  _ very _ wrong time.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, now aren’t we?

\--

Scott’s clock starts ticking from the second he’s born and it never really stops. Every minute of his life is spent planning, practicing, trying, failing, and then trying again. Auditions to any reality show that will take him -  _ Star Search, American Idol, The Voice, X Factor, High School Musical, America’s Got Talent  _ \- that have the potential to be everything but only ever lead to failure and rejection. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because his clock churns out hours in the span of seconds and he doesn’t have the time to be disappointed because he’s too busy trying again. At nineteen, his clock has amassed more time than most forty year olds. He is born working in overdrive. 

Avi, however, has a bit of a late start. His clock doesn’t start ticking until he’s fifteen, and even then it only gives two or three hours per day. He’s lost and confused and unsure of what he wants, of what he is, of what he can be. He goes to college and stutters through two years of courses he doesn’t enjoy with people he doesn’t like. He kisses girls that smell like fake raspberries at parties because it’s something he should do, and he thinks about boys with pretty eyes and nice arms to himself, but never shares such thoughts because that’s something that he knows he definitely  _ shouldn’t  _ do. His clock limps along weakly, and he finds himself graduating with a degree in a field he doesn’t like and a mass of student loans he can’t pay back. His clock stops and for a long time he isn’t sure if it will ever start again. He is afraid. He is so, so afraid.

It’s only when he hears a name in passing -  _ Scott something-or-other _ \- that the seconds of his clock begin to tick out slowly. There’s a band - well, it’s a group, really. An  _ a capella _ group. Three members so far (they’re looking for a bass and a beatboxer) that want to audition for some reality show and become rich and famous and revolutionize the world of music. It’s such a beautifully young and hopeful idea that Avi hears himself saying yes before he can even think of all the reasons why he should say no. His clock is years behind, but it’s ticking, and he’ll do anything to make sure that it doesn’t stop again.

And so they meet, Avi and this  _ Scott-something, _ and it’s all wrong. Scott is years ahead - his clock ticking faster and faster with each word he says, each kind smile, each determined gleam in those baby blue eyes - and Avi has decades missing. Their clocks don’t match. If Scott is the sunset, Avi is sunrise. He’s just beginning while Scott is nearly finished. They’re incompatible, impossible,  _ incapable. _ It’s the wrong time.

But thankfully, like we said, time doesn’t actually matter.

And, for now, it works.

Avi joins the group and meets the three kids that will come to be his best friends. Kirstie is cute and goofy and exactly the type of girl Avi would kiss at parties, and Mitch is beautiful and quiet and exactly the type of boy Avi would think about to himself but never actually try to pursue. They’re kind and sweet and young and talented and he loves them from the very first second their eyes meet. 

Scott is Scott, and Avi is terrified. He’s so bright and shiny and new - too blinded by his own potential to see logic - and it’s all so much. He feels something, low in his tummy right beneath his ribcage, whenever he looks at Scott, and he thinks that maybe it’s jealousy - jealousy because Scott’s clock is ticking, ticking, ticking, while Avi’s hardly moves - but he never really thinks about it. Because Scott is good - he’s  _ really _ fucking good - and he’s determined to the point of desperation, and after years of painstakingly spinning the threads of time at twice the normal pace, Avi figures that Scott has the right to be so far ahead.

It never really occurs to Avi that what he feels isn’t actually jealousy, but something more.

They find a beatboxer - a genius from Kentucky who has the world in his hands and gives it up for a taste of the stars - and Avi finds a brother. The seconds of his clock tick faster and faster, until he breathes in minutes and breathes out hours, and he beats out time to the rate of his heart. They meet, and they work, and they are, and it feels like a dream. They audition. They get a callback. They get in. They sing, they dance, they try.

They  _ win. _

And it’s a happy-ever-after until it’s not.

They’re dropped from their label. 

It’s a short meeting that leaves the five of them breathless and broken. Scott storms out of the studio before anyone can stop him, and usually it’s Mitch who would be the one to follow him but Mitch is too busy crying to do anything but hug Kirstie and try not to collapse on the floor. So instead Avi finds himself pushing through the fancy glass doors and out into the hot LA sun, chest aching at the sight of Scott sitting on the hood of his car with his head in his hands and the waves of time frozen around them. 

Avi crosses the parking lot, kicking at stray pebbles that shoot against the curb and roll away unscathed. He hops up next to Scott, whose honey hair is tousled messily and a little crunchy from too much hairspray. Scott doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, and lets his head fall against Avi’s shoulder. His eyes are rimmed red but his cheeks are dry, and Avi almost wishes he was sobbing instead - wishes he was screaming and wailing, because this is Scott and Scott is big and passionate and  _ emotional.  _ But Scott is quiet except for a few small sniffles, and it makes everything indefinitely worse.

“I thought,” Scott whispers, and it shatters into tiny pieces of broken glass. Avi nods and Scott sniffles again, and everything that was bright and shiny and new is suddenly tarnished beyond recognition.

“I know,” Avi says back, even though he doesn’t. Scott wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, voice quiet like it never is.

“They said yes,” he says. “After so many times of hearing the word no, I finally…” His shoulders slump. “They finally said _ yes  _ to me. And now they’re saying no again…”

“Sometimes that’s how it goes,” Avi says lamely, because it’s the sort of thing you say when you don’t know how to fix something that never should be broken in the first place. Scott looks at him like he wants to disappear.

“We won,” Scott says, and it’s cold and bitter. “We worked our asses off - we gave it  _ everything _ \- and we won. But we still fucking  _ lost.” _

Avi closes his eyes. “I know.”

“I can’t keep bouncing back. I just  _ can’t.” _

“Scott -”

“Just,” Scott waves a hand, sitting up straighter and wiping at his face. “Ignore me. I’ll be fine. Whatever. Just give me today to be heartbroken, and tomorrow I’ll just...I’ll just start again.”

Avi wants to say something - wants to make this better, even though he feels just as defeated and just as exhausted - but he doesn’t. Because Scott’s right and it’s not fair, but it’s also not the first time that either of them have been this disappointed and Avi knows that it likely won’t be the last.

Scott is quiet the rest of the day. He’s quiet when he and Avi go back into the studio to talk to the others, he’s quiet on the drive out to some cheap restaurant for dinner, he’s quiet when Avi drops him and Mitch off at their apartment for the night, everyone beaten down and tired and wanting more than anything for this to be a dream. 

But Scott’s right and the next day he’s back, brighter and shinier and more passionate than ever. He natters on about ideas to get Pentatonix’s name out there, about how to keep up with their fanbase, about how to make sure they’re not forgotten amongst the thousands of reality show winners that people cared about and adored until they didn’t anymore. He’s back, and he’s Scott, but Avi can’t help but notice that something is off and it takes him a long time before he realizes that the silence never really left. Scott’s working in overdrive like he was born doing, but his clock has ticked to a terrifyingly indefinite stop.

\--

They work.

They play small shows at even smaller venues, they meet fans who are kind and sweet and make Avi feel like some sort of rockstar, they upload videos to Youtube and actually garner a consistent audience. They get 10,000 views in a week. And then 20,000. And then 100,000.

They sign a new contract with RCA and release an EP, and then a Christmas album, and then another EP. They go on  _ tour. _ Avi feels his veins bubble with the force of milliseconds, until he’s hurtling forward like comet with no destination other than  _ up.  _ Everything is right, and beautiful, and difficult, and  _ good. _

But Scott.

Scott is stumbling.

Scott is  _ stopping. _

Everyone notices. Avi knows that Mitch has been talking to Scott, taking care of him, making sure that he’s okay even when he’s not, but it’s not enough and he’s too damn deafened by the wind in his ears from this sudden elation that he doesn’t hear the pleas and cries that have been there for so, so long now. He’s ahead. For once in his life, he’s finally ahead. And Scott is behind. They clash and argue and disagree on everything. They don’t work.

It’s the wrong time.

_ Again. _

And even when Scott shudders out of this stasis and bursts forward through ten years in three days, they still don’t match. They are separate spheres of existence - Avi is the churning ocean and Scott is the vast stretch of Earth, the two of them pressed up together in the thinnest of lines that lead only to misunderstandings and frustration. They are reaching, though. Stretching out for one another in whatever way they know how. The waves pull at the stubborn expanses of land, drawing them closer, enveloping them, driving them deeper and deeper into the dark caverns of the sea. The two of them don’t see it, though - they don’t see it, don’t feel it, don’t even know it yet. They are blind and foolish and so beautifully human.

And so we keep watching.

\--

It’s on the night of Kevin’s twenty-seventh birthday that Avi first notices it.

He’s standing by the bar and nursing a beer, happy to survey the clumps of people drunk on mirth and tequila. The deep bass of the music pulses through his body and he feels the vibration in his veins, electrifying each blood cell until his skin is tingling like he’s been rubbed down with sandpaper. The sight of Kirstie and Mitch talking animatedly in the corner makes him smile, and he only smiles more when Kevin whirls by with his cardboard crown falling off of his head and his cheeks flushed from the warmth of the club. He’s caught up by a group of his old college friends and is dragged away to take more shots, and Avi is surprised to find that even in such an intensely euphoric atmosphere, he feels completely at ease. He rests an arm back against the bar and and he lets himself watch, each beat of the music sending his clock forward minute by minute.

And then he sees Scott.

And time feels like it’s stopped.

Because Scott is beautiful. Scott is beautiful and driven and brilliant and still shiny even if he’s not quite as new. And Avi’s never noticed it before - never noticed how nice his smile is, how crinkly his eyes are, how solid and strong and safe his arms look. Scott is beautiful even in the dim air of the club, with multicolored lights flickering over his body and his honey hair tousled from dancing so much and the ease with which he simply _ is. _ Scott is beautiful, and Avi is frozen, and it feels like the churning waves are crashing upon the shore.

“Hey,” Scott shouts over the music, setting his empty drink on the counter and flagging down the bartender. “You looked a little lonely over here.”

Avi just blinks and stares at him. Scott’s face is cherry red and there are tiny beads of sweat by his hairline, and suddenly Avi has the most ludicrous desire to stand on his tiptoes and lick them off. He colors immediately and looks down at his near-empty beer bottle. Scott doesn’t notice and shouts an order to the bartender, glancing over at Avi with his arm thrown back on the counter.

“You want anything?” he asks, and Avi nods without thinking. He flinches when Scott pushes a pink and orange drink into his hands, catching the straw with his tongue and drinking half of it in one go. Scott laughs and takes a sip of his own drink, leaning back against the counter and watching contentedly the mobs of drunk people dancing in the middle of the floor. Avi can smell the burn of his cologne, and his hand trembles against the base of the glass.

“Kev looks happy,” Scott mentions after a moment, and Avi’s eyes stutter to find ahold of him. He’s sitting on one of the tables and singing karaoke, his voice fluttering through the speakers accompanied by the heavy sound of a produced bassline. He’s smiling and laughing and looks brilliant with life, but Avi finds his eyes drifting back to Scott after only a few seconds. Scott takes another drink, chest rising in a laugh. Avi’s never noticed how nice his chest is before. He wonders what it would feel like under his hands, the pads of his fingers dragging across soft, golden skin. His head feels light and he finishes his drink so quickly his stomach aches.

“What about you?” Scott asks, and Avi nearly chokes on the straw. “Are you having a nice time?”

“Um,” Avi says, though his voice is drowned out by the music. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

Scott ducks his head, so that his ear is a few inches from Avi’s mouth. “Sorry, what? It’s too loud.”

“Um,” Avi says again, helpless. Scott sets his glass down on the bar and rests his hand easily on Avi’s shoulder, stooping down.

“Wanna get some air?”

Avi nods, grateful, and then Scott’s arm is around his shoulders as he guides him through the thick crowd of people, and he wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to just stay in the club. They wind up on some balcony overlooking the city - Galway, Avi’s mind supplies, although he’s not too sure it’s not actually Dublin. This far into tour the cities begin to blur together. Scott rests his arms on the railing and sets his eyes on the skyline, glancing back at Avi when he doesn’t join him.

“You okay?” he asks, and it takes a second before Avi can force out a nod. He feels all too warm despite the cool spring air, time clicking around him until he thinks the seconds and minutes and hours have made him drunk. He takes a step towards Scott before pausing again, fingers aching as he tucks them into fists.

“Scott?”

Scott looks over, his eyes shining like they’ve swallowed the stars. It’s all too much. He’s beautiful. Avi takes another step forward, and time is gone, and he kisses him.

Scott’s mouth is soft, and he smells like oranges and sweat and it’s such a nice change from fake raspberries. Avi’s hands somehow end up cupping his face, and he has to stand on his tiptoes in order to reach Scott’s mouth but it doesn’t bother him. He likes being smaller than Scott. It’s different and it’s new and it’s really fucking  _ nice.  _ Scott’s face is scruffy and it makes Avi’s cheeks tingle when he tilts his head to the side, like his body is being shocked to life for the first time in twenty-six years. And then Scott’s hands are against his chest and he’s being pushed away, and moving back feels like breaking for air after being trapped under the surfaces for decades.

Avi blinks his eyes open and Scott is staring down at him, lips parted and shiny and red, and something in Avi’s stomach aches to know that  _ he _ did that. Scott swallows, hands still pressed against Avi’s chest, before slowly they slide around his ribcage and wind up his lower back, stepping closer and closer until the two of them are flushed together and the wind around them sounds like the waves crashing over the shore.

Scott leans down, almost hesitant, and drags their lips together again. Avi’s breath catches and he finds himself gripping onto Scott’s arms, dizzy from how nice they feel under his hands, how strong and sturdy. A quiet huff works its way from Scott’s throat and then he’s kissing him again, holding him steady as impatient fingers press against warm skin. All Avi can think is  _ soft _ . Everything about Scott is so  _ soft, _ and warm, and strong, and  _ nice.  _ He stumbles back against the balcony railing and braces himself against the edge, his clock beating forward by minutes, hours, days,  _ years, _ until he is burning through time far faster than ever before. Scott only kisses him again, and Avi thinks that no matter what happens everything will be okay if he could just keep kissing Scott. Because he can feel it - erupting around the two of them, humming and sparking and making the butterflies in his stomach tear through his ribcage and burst out into the air - time behaving like he’s never felt before, his clock hammering out each second with Scott’s beating right beside it. He is  _ soaring. _

And then he stutters.

Because his clock is off, and so is Scott’s. They are breaking through the epochs in the complete opposite direction from one another. They are different, and they are separate, and they are crashing. They don’t work.

Because it’s the wrong time.

Avi pulls away but Scott follows him, pale eyelashes fluttering as he cups Avi’s face and cradles him closer, like he can’t sense the utter wrongness of everything. Avi pulls away again - harder, pushing his hands against Scott’s chest and turning his head to the side - and Scott lets him this time. Avi stares up at him, chest heaving and lungs tight in his chest, and he feels the churning waves recede from the shoreline. He steps back.

“Avi,” Scott whispers, but Avi is already moving, pushing himself away from the balcony and rushing back into the club. Scott tries to follow him, tries to call to him, but it’s too dark and his head is too stuffy and by the time he can work out his thoughts, Avi is gone.

\--

We keep on watching.

Tour ends and they pretend like everything's okay. Pentatonix releases their first original album and they perform on morning talk shows and they sell thousands of records in the first week and they are  _ winning _ again. Avi feels like he’s being destroyed and reborn at the same time, and he doesn’t understand how beauty and terror have come to mean the exact same thing. He goes to bars and he kisses pretty girls that smell like fake raspberries, all the while wishing that they smelled like oranges and butterscotch instead. He’s afraid, he realizes, and it breaks his heart. He is so, so afraid.

They release another Christmas album and Avi muddles through the holidays like he’s forgotten what it feels like to breathe. He goes to the mountains with his family, burying himself in the cleanliness of nature and trying not to look at the sky because it’s beautiful and shiny and new and the exact color that he can’t bear to see. He wants to go back. He wants to rewind the weeks that have rushed unfairly by, and he wants to fix his crooked heart before it has the chance to break. He wants a lot of things, but most of all he wants Scott.

His phone rings on New Year’s Eve, about an hour before midnight, and he taps the answer button without looking at the caller ID. His family is gathered around the tiny television in their cabin and he can hear the staticky cheers and laughter from the crowds in New York City, wishing he was lost in a crowd of people because then maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone. He presses the phone to his ear and says hello, before all of the air is sucked from his lungs and he feels like he’s floating breathless amongst the stars.

“Hey,” Scott says, and Avi freezes before immediately standing and moving into the kitchen. Scott sounds tired, his voice low and scratchy.

“Hey,” Avi says, tugging at his beard and leaning against the kitchen counter. His heart is beating too fast and his palms are sweaty. “Um, how - what’s up?”

“I wanted to say hi,” Scott says. “Wish you a happy new year and...all that…”

“Right.” Avi swallows. “Happy new year, Scott.”

“Avi?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not…” Scott sighs, and Avi picks at his thumbnail until it starts to bleed. “I’m confused. I get that you don’t want to talk about - about, you know...but...I don’t like this, what we are right now. I don’t like this distance.”

“You’re in Fiji,” Avi says lamely, “of course there’s distance.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Scott sounds confused, almost defensive. A bead of blood forms at Avi’s cuticle. “Why?”

“Because I am.” Avi shakes his head. “I mean I _ was. _ That night, I was. I was drunk, Scott, and you were drunk, and we - it was just us being drunk.”

Scott is quiet, and his breathing sounds like the wind. “I wasn’t nearly as drunk as you seem to think I was. I was sober enough to remember it, and so were you.”

“Scott -”

“I’m not - I’m not asking for us to make more out of it than there is. I would be fine without ever talking about it, but that’s what we’ve been doing and it’s only made things weird.”

“Things aren’t weird,” Avi says quickly, and Scott sighs.

“We’ve barely talked. I - I mean, is it weird because it meant something? To you? Maybe it wasn’t just -”

“Scott,” Avi says, and it’s so sharp that it makes him wince. “I’m not” - he lowers his voice so that his family can’t hear him - “I’m not  _ into _ guys. It was just - we were drunk.”

The silence on the phone is deafening. Avi tugs at his hair and glances back into the living room, where his family are oblivious to the fact that the world has ceased to spin.

“Okay,” Scott says finally, and Avi hates how he almost sounds sad. “I just wanted to make sure. Have a nice night, Avi. Happy new year.”

“Scott,” Avi starts, but his phone clicks and Scott is gone. He stares down at his thumbnail, smearing the blood away and wiping his hand on his jeans. He sits back with his family and they ask him who was on the phone, and he lies and says it was just an old college friend. When the clock strikes midnight he watches as the crowds erupt and the confetti falls, and he finds himself wondering about how cruel time can be when you’re too afraid to make the minutes count.

\--

The weeks pass and everything is weird but they make it through. They spend hours in the studio, writing songs and recording songs and producing songs until Avi is high on the taste of harmony. He and Scott talk more, though they’re never left alone, and soon enough the awkwardness fades to simple cordiality. Their clocks tick with each second that passes, never once beating out the same moment, but that’s alright because it’s the wrong time just like it’s always been the wrong time. They’re fine. They clash and they argue and they don’t work. And it’s fine.

Avi shows up to the studio for a writing session one day to find Scott sitting alone in the room, cuddled up in an oversized sweatshirt with his honey hair tucked into a beanie. Avi stops in the doorway and feels his lips tingle, the word  _ soft _ playing in his head over and over until he wants to curl up beside Scott and fall asleep forever. Instead, he drops off his guitar case by the table and settles across from him on the couch, warm in all of the wrong ways.

“Hey,” Scott says, looking up from his phone with baby blue eyes that look like they’ve swallowed the waves. “Nicky called, said he had to cancel our session today.”

“Oh,” is all Avi says, and then he’s sitting up and picking at his thumbnail, ignoring the sting. “Okay. I guess we can reschedule, then?”

Scott shrugs. “We’ve got the room booked, might as well stay. I think me and you can whack out a song in three or four hours.” 

Avi nods slowly but doesn’t say anything, watching as Scott moves to the piano and sets up the sheet music. He looks up when Avi follows, smiling and patting the piano bench beside him. There’s not enough room for the two of them but Avi sits anyway, their thighs smushed together and Scott’s pretty eyes much too close. He smells like gingerbread, and Avi wants to taste him.

“I’ve been thinking about a softer sound,” Scott says, twirling a pen between his long fingers, and Avi wonders if he’s teasing him. Scott looks serious, though, caught up in that  _ overdrive _ that he’s been in for decades now. He’s hungry, driven, searching for more, and Avi suddenly remembers just how  _ good _ writing with Scott feels. They’ve always worked well together - some of Pentatonix’s best songs have come out of Scott and Avi bouncing ideas back and forth tirelessly, until the magic worked its way into the music and they were left there with tired eyes and beautiful souls. Avi’s missed it, and that discomfort he’s felt around Scott lately sinks away. He smiles, and it’s nice.

“Okay,” Avi says, pulling at his beanie before smoothing down a piece of paper. “I like soft. Slow?”

“Yeah,” Scott whispers, looking over at Avi. “I like it soft and slow.” 

“It should have a pick up, though,” Avi says, “half-way through. Start off slow and sweet, and then have the intensity build. Make it a little rough, you know?”

Scott looks at him for a long time before nodding. “Yeah. I like it rough, too.”

“Okay,” Avi says, scribbling out some notes on the creased paper. “So start off slow, and then build up to the bridge? And then maybe have it cool off at the end, slow it back down.”

“Make it sweet again,” Scott agrees, fingering a few piano keys before deciding on an F# chord. The sound rings out in the room and Avi feels goosebumps on the back of his neck. “I like that.”

Avi leans against the side of the piano, watching as Scott tinkers out a few more chords and hums a broken melody. It’s sad at first, slow and broken. There are a few wonky notes and Scott’s voice is rumbly and quiet, but Avi loves it. It feels real. Avi rests his hand on Scott’s arm and scoots a little closer, his toes curling at a particularly nice line.

“Wait, sing that again,” he says, and Scott falters a bit before doing so. It’s just a simple hum but Avi joins in, taking up the higher harmony so that the sound between the two of them wavers warmly in the air. Avi finds the notes on the piano and quickly jots them down, before moving closer and singing it again.

_ “The cry of the night and the hush of the day…” _ Avi trails off, shaking his head.  _ “The - the… _ um…”

_ “The harsh winter garden…”  _ Scott hums, rubbing at his chin. “No, that’s too -”

“I like it,” Avi says, looking up at him. Their eyes meet and Scott pauses before smiling.

“Okay,” he whispers.  _ “The cry of the night and the hush of the day, the harsh winter garden. _ ..uh,  _ beneath cold snow we lay?” _

Avi sings it back, shaking his head slowly.  _ “The harsh winter garden, beneath...beneath Jack Frost we lay?  _ No, wait -”

“That’s a little gay,” Scott laughs, and Avi’s cheeks flush.  _ “Beneath _ ...damnit,  _ beneath…” _

_ “The harsh winter garden, and Jack Frost is gay,” _ Avi sings, and Scott laughs again, leaning into his side and covering his hand with his mouth. “I mean it  _ works.” _

“The rhyme is perfect,” Scott agrees, before shaking his head and donning his serious face. “Okay.  _ The harsh winter garden where...where last hopes decay?” _

Avi makes a face, looking up at Scott. “I mean it works, but it’s kinda morbid. I thought we wanted it to be sweeter? Soft and slow doesn’t always equate to sadness.”

Scott rubs at the back of his neck and nods. “Yeah, it’s a bit... _ eh. _ Lyrics aren’t really my strong point.”

Avi rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, both of them well aware that Scott is the better lyricist out of the two of them. He scribbles down what they have so far, chewing on the cap of his pen and humming out the slow melody. Scott joins in softly, his shoulder pressed against Avi’s back, and for the first time in weeks Avi feels completely at ease. He could get used to this, he realizes. He  _ wants _ to get used to this.

An hour or so later they’re both on the floor lying on their backs, singing the few verses they have over and over. Avi presses his hands to his head, still trying to work out the bassline and tapping his foot in rhythm, and Scott harmonizes softly beside him. The song reminds him of something Simon and Garfunkel would write, and he feels a hazy sort of adoration form in his chest at how beautiful he and Scott have managed to get it. He trails off and just listens to Scott sing, still awed by this boy who has fought so terribly to get where he is, and who deserves to be nowhere but at the top. He looks over, smiling a little at how Scott’s eyes are closed and his fingers are moving along with the notes, completely absorbed by the music and so terrifyingly beautiful. Avi feels himself getting dizzy, feels his fingertips tingle and his heartbeat quicken, and he wonders why it’s only ever Scott who can make him feel so lost and yet so found.

Scott stops singing and opens his eyes, smiling over at Avi and looking so _ soft  _ that everything else in the world doesn’t matter anymore. Avi swallows, his mouth too dry, and he rolls over onto his side so that they’re lying face to face.

“Pretty,” Scott says, his hand resting on his cheek as that cozy smile tugs at his lips again. “We make a good team, Avriel.”

Avi nods, his breath caught up in his throat like it’s scared of what will happen if it gets out. He feels helpless. He is  _ terrified. _

But Scott’s eyes only crinkle and Avi drowns in the fear.

“Scott?”

“Yeah?”

Avi pushes himself forward, hands trembling, and he kisses him.

It’s so much better than before. There’s no alcohol to muddle his senses this time and everything is heightened and brilliant and completely overwhelming. Scott’s mouth is soft and he tastes like pomegranate chapstick, his hands warm when they rest against Avi’s neck, like his entire body is burning with the heat of the sun. Their noses bump together and it’s entirely imperfect, but Avi can feel Scott’s smile when he kisses him and he can’t help but smile back. Time surges around them, fearsome and impatient and seraphic, and Avi feels as though he’s been struck by lightning when Scott’s fingers thread through his and press him down against the floor. He is being consumed, devoured,  _ deconstructed, _ and he wishes that his clock would stop just so that this would never end.

“Avi,” Scott says against his lips, bearing down against Avi’s hips so that he’s trapped. Avi pants out a moan, letting his free hand rest against the warmth of Scott’s lower back, his palm tingling as though he’s been burned. Scott kisses him deeper, his tongue soft against Avi’s bottom lip and his teeth dragging out another moan. It is indelicate and improper and  _ dirty _ and Avi is thrumming with want.

And then he hears it, the inconsistent beats of two clocks set years apart. The mismatched rhythm that makes his skin crawl with panic and confusion. The want turns to fear and the fear turns to terror. Avi’s hand moves away from Scott’s back, instead pushing against Scott’s shoulders until his weight is gone and he can sit up straight. Avi’s skin throbs, and his head hurts, and he can’t even look at Scott because they’re clashing again, just like before, and it’s even worse now.

Because it’s the wrong time. 

It’s  _ always _ the wrong fucking time.

Avi is standing and grabbing his jacket before Scott can even say anything, panic pulling at him like the strings of a puppet. He’s out the door without another word, rushing down the hallway with tears in his eyes and the sadistic sounds of time ticking one right after the other.

\--

The next time Avi sees Scott, they don’t talk. It’s a press day and they go from interview to interview, answering the same questions they’ve heard before and putting on smiles for hosts who don’t know their proper names and don’t seem to care. Avi hardly says a word. Everybody seems a bit worried at first but Avi is naturally quiet so they chalk it up to it just being one of those days. It’s mind-numbing and awful, but it passes and soon enough Avi finds himself walking out into the parking lot at the end of the day. He doesn’t notice the man walking behind him, and it’s only when he’s pressed against the side of his car that he looks up to see those baby blue eyes.

Scott doesn’t look mad. Avi had thought after everything he’d be mad, or at least annoyed, but his face is open and vulnerable and he looks nothing but sad.

“Hey,” Scott says, moving his hand back from Avi’s shoulder. Avi misses the touch, and then immediately scolds himself because he’s not supposed to. Scott sort of slumps against the hood of the car. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Avi nods, even though he’s jittery and nervous and can’t really hold Scott’s eyes. “Okay.”

“The other day…” Scott shakes his head. “I can’t - you weren’t drunk that time, Avi.” 

Avi’s face grows cold but he only shrugs. Scott purses his lips, the skin between his eyebrows creasing. 

“I’m not…” Scott huffs, closing his eyes. “I’m not some toy that you can play with when you want to, and then throw away after. I get that the first time might have been a mistake but the second -”

“Scott -”

_ “You _ kissed me. I didn’t initiate  _ anything, _ either time. It was all you.”

Avi’s shoulders hunch forward. “I…I’m not into guys, Scott.”

Scott clenches his jaw, looking up at the sky. “Right.”

“I’m  _ not -” _

“Are you sure? Because it seems like you definitely  _ are.” _ Scott glares at him, and Avi shrinks smaller and smaller, until he can feel himself slipping between the cracks in the pavement. Scott sighs. “Look,” he says, and it’s softer this time. Avi winces.  _ Soft. _ “I get that you might be freaking out because you’re feeling this way. I’ve definitely freaked out over it before. Coming to terms with being something other than straight is difficult, but...doing what you’re doing isn’t a good way to go about it. People have feelings, Avi, you can’t just use them to experiment on.”

Avi doesn’t look at him. “I’m not gay.”

Scott shakes his head. “I never said you were.”

Avi’s quiet, leaning his weight back against his car. Scott shakes his head again.

“I can help you,” he says, and Avi wants to believe him. “You just have to let me.”

“I’m afraid.”

“I understand that -”

“We won’t  _ work, _ Scott. It - this won’t work. It never works out, and it’ll just end with us hating each other, and I -”

Scott doesn’t say anything and simply steps forward and takes Avi’s face in his hands, and he kisses him. And Avi wants to push him away, wants to move back, wants to tell him that this can’t work because it’s all wrong, everything is all wrong, but all he can bring himself to do is pull Scott closer and tangle his fingers into soft honey hair. And it starts up again, just like it’s always done, the seeds of time bursting forward one right after another until Avi feels it burning in his lungs, all of the air gone as the waves crash forward upon the shore and the ocean consumes the land. Because his clock is ticking, stronger and louder than ever before, and he can feel the moments of time warm around his heart when Scott kisses him again and again and again. And he can hear Scott’s clock, churning out the hours and days and years as the universe aligns itself and the two of them beat together in utter and constant synchronicity. They match, and they burn, and they  _ are. _

And it’s the right time.


End file.
